50 First Dates
by phantomphan2000
Summary: When Belle is shot by none other than the infamous Captain Hook, she accidentally crosses the town line and loses her memory. Rumpelstiltskin works madly to find a way to make her remember him as she recovers back in Storybrooke, and to do just that, he's going to need some help, whether he wants to admit it or not. AU, no outsider
1. Prologue

**Prologue **

Blood. _Her_ blood. On his hands.

He can't move, can't breathe, can't think. Because she is staring up at him, and there is no familiar glint of recognition in those eyes. Because there is a bullet lodged in her shoulder, and he knows without immediate medical attention, she could bleed out from the gunshot wound. From the wound inflicted by the man he hates most in any world.

There is nothing he can do but hold her broken body close to his as she starts to fade into unconsciousness. "Stay with me, Belle," he whispers over and over. "I need you." At least that's what he thinks he says. Because he can't hear anything over his own blood pounding far too quickly in his ears, as if his black heart is beating twice as fast to cover the beats her own will miss. Beating for her to _live_.

Her brow furrows, and he thinks the pain must really be getting to her, his hands soaked almost completely in red warmth, which means he will have to get past Hook somehow. To get her to safety. To get her help. But before he can act, she asks, "Who's Belle?"

The question is so innocently posed, naive curiosity crushing every ounce of strength he has left. He crumbles inward, frozen as her eyelids slowly fall over orbs that had once sparkled with delight upon his arrival—to the library, to Granny's, to the shop when she wished to surprise him. Air rushes forth from his lungs faster than a deflating balloon's. No one has ever managed to defeat him this way because he had lost everything he loved after he thought he'd lost Belle the first time. He had been miserable, but invincible once, long ago. And his world—obliterated, demolished, destroyed, ruined, forgotten in mere seconds—effaced from existence. Again and again. By the same bloody pirate who mocked him now.

"Now you know how it feels, Crocodile." Hook's mouth continues to move, the sound of clomping boots echoing loudly off the tree trunks surrounding them as he steps closer, smiling _his_ devilish smile, the one reserved for dealmaking in another land, gun held loosely between his weathered fingers. He waves the weapon around casually as he speaks. "Ah, I've just remembered something. You love her, don't you? Which means you can't leave her here to fend for herself. What kind of a man would leave the woman he loves to die just to save his own skin?" The pirate captain kneels at his side. His anger sparks to life when cold steel meets the underside of his chin, forcing his head back. He glares defiantly up at Hook, who is predictably left to answer his own query: "_A coward_."

The world turns abruptly and violently to fire and Hook is blown backward by an explosion of flames he can't remember conjuring from his palm. The fiend lands in a crumbled heap yards away as the gun clatters noisily to the pavement, and with the aid of magic, he pulls it to him. He wraps Belle up in his arms, holding the firearm in one hand. Then a phone is pressed firmly to his ear by the other, and he swallows once, twice. He hears a voice mumble something unintelligible on the opposite end, but he recognizes the tone all the same. "Sheriff Swan," he breathes, desperation smothering the relief in his voice. Because he has magic, because he is feared, because he is _Rumpelstiltskin_, he does not ask for help. But for Belle, he would do anything.

"I need your help."


	2. Dream A Little Dream of Me

**Chapter 1: Dream A Little Dream of Me**

Coffee. Black. Two lumps of sugar. No cream. It's how he likes his early morning refreshment—when he wants it, of course. When he occasionally rises before noon and hobbles down the stairs without paying her any mind, sitting down in the same old chair by the window, expecting her to quietly hand him a steaming cup. She's not to speak unless spoken to, but she's never followed that rule. He stopped trying to enforce it weeks ago.

But as she approaches him, she decides against engaging in conversation. Going in, she always has to the courage to say something—anything. Everything. Readies herself, equips her fearless form with the appropriate weapons only to lay them down peacefully once upon the battlefront. This happens every morning, naturally. Always the same, never to change. Like a dance. His chair faces a curtained window, as it has since the accident a month ago, and she knows without a doubt it will stay put unless he wishes otherwise. He'll sit silently for hours, just staring, staring at nothing, sipping away at repulsive black coffee, invisible to the world. And when it's gone, he'll disappear for hours more into the basement, isolating himself even further. She's not permitted to follow or touch anything until he emerges. Still, she's fallen into the habit of sliding a tray under the door every night. Sometimes the food's been nibbled at or pushed around on the plate when she retrieves it the next morning. But never fully eaten.

She extends the drink to him, her fingers gripping the cup around the rim. He takes it with a quick glance in her direction that is meant to be furtive. Even after weeks of locking himself inside his mind, he's seemed to have delved deeper into nothingness, lost, hopeless, stranded and alone—_by choice_. His eyes hold no life, his face weathered and worn. His skeletal fingers curl around the glass mug, craving the feeling of warmth at the tips, and he takes a tentative sip. At this, her mouth turns south at one end. After all this time he's kept her here, after weeks of microwaved meals and coffee and watching him waste away to nothing, after waking her in the dead of night to cash in her owed favor and dragging her into this mess, after weeks of taking care of him—_of Belle_—and _not saying anything_, how could he not trust her?

"How is she?"

If Emma had still been holding the cup, she would have dropped it. Hearing his voice, however hoarse from lack of use, is a shock to her system because she can count on one hand the number of times he's spoken since that horrific night. She's taken aback for a moment until he prompts her again, eyes widened and unfocused but never leaving his face.

"Sheriff?"

"Fine," Emma croaks instantly. She clears her throat, regains her composure, and continues. "Unconscious, but fine. Dr. Whale will be stopping by to check on her later this afternoon. Until then, I'll look after her." The words tumble, nervous and unsure, from her lips because this is a dance she's never danced. She doesn't know the steps, skeptical of having the capability to learn them.

He nods once, drains the last of his coffee, limps into the kitchen. She's surprised again when he returns with the aid of his cane, robe draped over his left forearm. Weeks (not months, the sheriff reminds herself) have passed since she's seen him in a pressed suit (but the first hidden beneath a bathrobe). Since he felt the need to uphold his image to all of Storybrooke's residents, and she couldn't blame him—losing the supposed love of his life in every sense that mattered—to a certain degree. Still can't. Because part of him died that night Belle was shot. And Emma certainly knew that part wasn't coming back. But she can tell something has returned in the way he holds himself, and for a split second, she catches a flash of unabashed confidence pass over his features before he breaks eye contact and moves toward the front door.

The movement, the fact that he's up and moving around—it roots her feet to the floor. There is a tightened feeling in her chest until Gold crosses the threshold and disappears with a _click_. Air floods her lungs, and she can breathe again.

Mary Margaret—also known as Snow White, also known as her mother—calls not an hour later. Of course she is worried, of course she cares enough to insist on coming over while the owner is away, of course she plays the I'll–Bring–Henry card. It's tempting. The call itself pulls at Emma's heartstrings to _know_ she cares. And it's exactly what she wants (minus meeting up at Gold's place). But it's also something she can't do. Not now. Not yet.

"I'm sorry," she replies. "He needs me."

Snow wishes her well and hangs up.

* * *

And, just like that, Mr. Gold is back—the pawnbroker, the dealmaker, word weaver. Storybrooke residents part faster than the sea to make way for him on his merry little stroll down memory lane. The keys jingle in his pocket every other step, and it brings a smile to his face. His mind shuffles through songs until it finds one that matches the rhythm of his stride. He repeats the lyrics to himself, even hums a little. All the way to the Sheriff's Station.

The sheriff won't suspect he snagged her keys until it's too late. By then, he'll have returned and possibly replaced them before she even has the chance to discover they're missing. He slips inside without a backward glance, unnoticed. Gold limps, taking his time, shedding his jacket and draping it over the chair behind the desk outside Emma's office, leaning his cane against the locked file cabinets. He ignores the stare he feels burning holes in his skin, the smile creeping back onto his face as he loosens his tie. When he finally looks up to meet the gaze of the man solely responsible for his recent misfortunes, the pawnbroker channels every ounce of hate he's ever felt through the uneasy silence draped between them. The prisoner is bound to the back wall of the cell at the wrists and ankles by an unseeable force. Like Gold, he is thin, though far weaker, fed just enough to keep him alive. An angry red mark lays diagonally across his face from forehead to cheek—a permanent reminder of where Gold's conjured fire burned him.

The word weaver flashes that sickening smile, his tone mocking. "How are you, Hook?"

* * *

She dreams. And when she doesn't dream, she floats in peaceful darkness.

But she loves to dream.

She dreams of the woods and playing hide–and–seek with the sun. She dreams of horses and princes and castles and queens. She dreams of heroism, of sacrifice and bravery. She dreams of far off lands and mysteries waiting to be uncovered. She dreams of books, piles and piles of books, all stacked to the ceiling, and she hopes they have her name on them. She dreams and dreams and dreams.

One sticks with her.

She enters a library and immediately fills her hands with books to place back on the shelves. She runs this place, she knows it, feels it. Just as she's about to file away her books, she spots him, dressed entirely in black, a hook—replacing the empty space where his left hand _should_ have been—craddling a page of her precious reading material. "Uh, sorry," she says, a little awkwardly. "The library's not open yet." The words are the first she remembers speaking in a dream. Because of course she knows she's dreaming.

He looks to her with a charming smile and shuts the book without breaking eye contact, replacing the novel on its proper shelf. The sweet smirk quickens her heart. "Oh, I'm not here for the books, love." And he takes a step towards her, her stomach doing a little flip he can't see.

She doesn't know her name, and she doesn't know why she won't wake up.

But she thinks maybe that's not such a bad thing.


End file.
